I’d never appreciated the cold, hard presence of my dining room table before. It was so incredibly refreshing, pressed firmly against my forehead. I felt like it was single-handedly keeping me
alive.

Oddly, given the circumstances, I recalled the salesman who sold me the dinning suite. I could hear his nasally voice saying that the contours of the wood grain ‘softened the impact’ of the heavy
table top and dark colouring, and gave the whole room a ‘warm comforting feel’. He obviously hadn’t experienced the table from this angle. It was definitely Cold and Hard.

The pressure of the warm natural wood grain against the fevered temperature of my forehead was so refreshingly and reassuringly that I thought I might never raise my head again. That was
assuming I had a say in it.

I decided to see if it was possible, and strained my head against the unbearable downward force of gravity. I invested everything I had to focus my dazed mind to the task. It hurt to do so… in fact
everything hurt. Synapses jerked to attention and I honestly believed that I had to force tiny electrical pulses – one at a time – out of my frontal lobe to weave their way down my fibrous nerves
into my shoulders and neck. My muscles and tendons groaned audibly as they strained to slowly comply with my unrealistic demand. I had the absurd thought that I was raising my head with the table
top fastened hard in place.

‘Don’t’. A menacing voice like rock grinding on rock gave me an icy chill down my spine. Hard.

****

Suddenly I break from my stupor with a jolt.

‘Is it him…?’

‘I dunno… check the tatts.’ A second voice. Calculating. In control. Cold

‘What tatts?’

‘On his hands’

My hands are both resting on my knees beneath the table, and I pull them towards my stomach reflexively. My Left hand brushes something smooth and round. I know instantly what it is - my salvation
strapped beneath the table. I reach clumsily for the Cold Hard steel of the colt .45 barrel, and prepare to rip it free of the gaffer tape bindings.

‘Show me’.

I hesitate. Fingers following barrel, the trigger and guard, the moulded grip.

‘NOW’ The gravelly voice becomes an avalanche. Its difficult not to comply.

I grip the gun firmly, and test the holdings. It wants to come free.

‘NOOOOOW!!!!!!’

****

The rest happens in a blur.

Gun releases in a smooth motion. In the moment, I still have forever to see the shock and fear in his eyes. I squeeze the trigger Hard. Pop. His eyes fade.

Second one. He’s no longer in control. He begs. All I feel is Cold malice. Pop. It’s done.

I cant afford to hesitate, and head for the front door. As I reach to pull the door closed behind me, I see the blood spatter across my knuckles. I wipe it on my shirt with annoyance… revealing my
tattooed knuckles for just a moment before the door swings behind me.

....in fading blue ink they say Cold across one set of knuckles, Hard across the other.